


and all you fear, you feared alone

by honeymilktea (rosevtea)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Missing Scene, after practice shenanigans, ennoshita just runs his fingers through noya's hair and thinks about the future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:07:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23532790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosevtea/pseuds/honeymilktea
Summary: After practice, it goes like this: the smell of wet concrete, fingers running through soft strands of hair,  and a boy like lightning against his chest.
Relationships: Ennoshita Chikara/Nishinoya Yuu
Comments: 14
Kudos: 46





	and all you fear, you feared alone

**Author's Note:**

> set in s4 ep1, during the mini-time skip before the training camps

It’s raining in the moonlight and Nishinoya’s hair is soft against his fingers, falling from its usual updo as the condensation and Ennoshita’s own hands work through individual strands. The weather itself is nothing to get concerned about (only a light drizzle, according to the dying flickers of his phone) and Nishinoya isn’t complaining either, his eyes closed as he tilts his head upwards.

Compliancy is an odd sort of look on Nishinoya, whose fierce grin and sharp eyes have melted away into a lax twitch in the corner of his mouth. Ennoshita shouldn’t be as surprised as he is, knowing well that _unpredictable_ is a trait Nishinoya embodies as much as _reliable_ —that his brashness and penchant for going off-topic have rocketed past strange and slotted itself dangerously close to endearing—but seeing him like this, in these small, almost inconceivable moments, feels like borrowed time.

His hands continue to weave through his hair. Left in the darkness and free of judgement, Ennoshita closes his eyes and breathes in, slowly; takes in the tangy scent of wet concrete and stirred-up dirt, the hushed thuds of the raindrops, the chill of the wall behind him.

“I didn’t bring an umbrella,” Ennoshita says almost absently, brushing through lingering strands of gel. He doesn’t have to look to know that Nishinoya’s smile has only grown.

“We gotta try it,” Nishinoya says, leaning back. His body heat is warm against the thin layer of his shirt and the roughness of the club room wall digs into his back as he shifts to accommodate him. Ennoshita wonders when he stopped caring. “Running through the rain, Chikara. We gotta do it.”

He breathes out the words like they’ll shatter, and it is so unlike the _rolling thunder_ Nishinoya is so determined to coin as a move that Ennoshita stills and works his jaw, willing a response to come. The refusal resting on his tongue lingers and dissolves in the same moment.

(In times like these, Nishinoya reminds him of lightning: flashy but quiet, followed by loud cheers that come with saving a play. All eyes are on him, but this sight of Nishinoya—his hair in its natural state because of _him_ —is for him alone.)

“We can’t afford to get sick,” Ennoshita cuts in.

“I bet we won’t,” Nishinoya insists. “We could make it to your house if we run fast enough.”

He’s right, though the ten minute walk to his house was made under flickering street lights, the quiet company of the stars, and the disappearance of however many yen it took to buy Nishinoya three of those soda-flavored popsicles he can finish in two bites.

“We are not stopping to buy popsicles.” It’s as good as giving in, but Ennoshita always had a talent for stopping Nishinoya from his more impulsive decisions. And saving his wallet. “We’ll go straight to my house.”

At this, Nishinoya spins around, all turbulent movement as his hands rest against Ennoshita’s thighs. He’s never been one to take resolution in halves, so he digs his fingers in and leans in, grin taking on a soft edge. Hair falls around him as his eyes gleam, the last embers of a sunset spilling across the sky, and Ennoshita doesn’t bother to stifle his laugh as he lets his hands drop and rest against Nishinoya’s.

“Why’re—?” Nishinoya goes cross-eyed, staring at the orange streak hanging over his forehead. “Oi, why didn't ya tell me, Chikara!”

The words, accompanied by small puffs of air, fall just shy of accusing. Moonbeams illuminate the both of them in soft white, glinting off curves where spikes would have been. Nishinoya’s stare is hidden in the shadows, boring into him with an intensity he usually saves for the court, and Ennoshita wants to ask him what he sees.

“I didn’t want to,” Ennoshita admits easily. “I like your hair like this.”

Nishinoya shakes his head. “Nah, my hair looks cooler when it’s spiked up. You know Shouyou got scared when he first saw my hair down?”

“How could I forget,” Ennoshita says fondly. Then he adds, “How’s your headache?” because an argument about Nishinoya’s hair could go just about anywhere.

“Good, now.” Nishinoya smiles and Ennoshita doesn’t need the radiance of the moon to be able to make out the creases in his eyes, the way his cheeks burn red against the cold winter air. He’s outlined by the stars in hazy lines that highlight his shoulders and creep up his neck, slack with lack of tension. “You’re more sure with your hands when you massage my head. It feels better.”

“If you say so,” Ennoshita mutters. And, before he can stop himself, “Noya?”

He almost misses the exact moment Nishinoya rests his forehead against his. It’s a near thing, because the question crowds his throat, clogging his lungs when a soft pressure loosens his chest. Just like that.

“Why did you vote for me as the next captain?” Ennoshita asks.

 _No reason_ lies in the memory of another night sky, with more people and far less uncertainty, but Tanaka hadn’t expressed direct disinterest like Kinnoshita and Narita. Tanaka has the mental fortitude and the starter position and a back the underclassmen could look to for comfort. Tanaka is strength in all the forms Ennoshita lacks.

(Maybe he’s gotten more desperate for the answer after clutching onto a bathroom sink, Daichi’s appraisal bitter in his mouth. _Nothing special_ burns in the back of his mind, but leaving volleyball hurts harder than facing his insecurities head on. Ennoshita isn’t the type to make the same mistake twice.)

“I thought you could do it.” Nishinoya sounds as self-assured as ever. “You’re calm, but in, like, the scary way, so the underclassmen will definitely listen to you. ‘Sides, the rest of us were too freaked out to do much in the match against Wakutani. Your game strategies were so _cool_ , Chikara.”

Ennoshita thinks of _nice receive_ and eyes that looked at him with trust and the puff of air curling against his mouth. There’s so much to do, to get from where he is right now to the captain Daichi believes he could be. He wonders if it’s okay that the first step is off the court, in a lightning strike that comes from months in the making and culminates in a boy reassuring him in the dark. To earn the praise and to deny it might be different monsters in and of themselves, and Nishinoya’s victorious gaze as he pulls away won’t let him deny it.

(He wonders, and he thinks, and he _wants_.)

“I’ll have to keep working on receives, then,” Ennoshita says lightly.

Nishinoya’s eyes are shining. “That’s the spirit.”

And if a revelation follows the warmth blooming in his chest as he intertwines his fingers with Nishinoya’s, he keeps it to himself. It’s nothing extra practice the next day won’t answer.


End file.
